The black car rolled up the winding driveway of the Volkov family estate, its tires crunching over the white gravel that lined the entrance. The mansion ahead stood regal and timeless, all sharp angles and dark stone, a monument to the dynasty it housed. It was the kind of house that echoed secrets and swallowed history whole. And today, it echoed something else too—laughter, voices, and the heavy weight of expectation.
Nikolai stepped out of the car, his expression composed but the chaos inside him carefully hidden beneath his usual steely demeanor. His mother always said he wore his worry like a perfectly tailored suit—seamless to the outsider, suffocating to the man beneath.
He took in a breath of cool air and moved up the steps, greeted immediately by the familiar voices of his siblings. Anya, his teenage sister with fire in her veins, and Viktor, the family clown and chaos magnet.
"Nikolai!" Anya called from the living room, where she was pretending to karate-kick Viktor.
"She thinks she can kick my ass because she did three push-ups this morning," Viktor groaned.
"Four," Anya corrected.
He smirked briefly but said nothing, nodding at them before making his way toward the kitchen. He already knew where she'd be. His mother, Natalia Volkov, was like gravity in this house—you didn't find her, you orbited her.
The kitchen was bright, warm with the aroma of roasted meat and freshly baked bread, and there she stood. Perfect posture, hair in a low, elegant twist, sleeves rolled up as she basted the duck with a precision that rivaled a surgeon's.
She looked up and smiled faintly, but the moment her sharp eyes landed on him, her smile dropped. "What's wrong?"
He sighed inwardly. No pleasantries. Straight to the throat.
"Nothing, just a rough day."
Her brow lifted slowly, disbelieving.
"You forget I birthed you, Nikolai. I know when you're lying."
He tried to brush it off with a shrug and stepped toward the counter. "Need help?"
"Yes. Prepare the dessert while you tell me what's bothering you."
He picked up a bowl and began stirring the mousse, his mind racing.
"Not now," he muttered. "After lunch. When we sit down. Maybe over a glass of whisky."
She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. "Fine. But I want the whole story. No half-truths."
"Always," he murmured.
As they finished prepping the food, Natalia called out orders like a general. Viktor and Anya were summoned to set the table, and after a few groans and a bit of playful arguing, they complied. Even Dimitri, their father, helped pour drinks, though he grumbled about being treated like a servant in his own home.
Lunch was served. The family gathered around the massive dining table, the clinking of cutlery and laughter filling the space like old music.
Anya launched into her news first. "I want to join karate. I think it'll help me kick Viktor's ass."
"You can try," Viktor said with a grin. "Just remember I still know where you hide your candy stash."
"Low blow," she huffed.
Viktor turned to Nikolai with a sly grin. "I made peace with my crazy ex, by the way."
Nikolai raised a brow. "You got back together?"
"Hell no," Viktor said. "I just bribed her a little. No more threats, no more slashed tires."
"You need to work on your taste in women," Nikolai muttered.
The laughter died down after dessert, and Natalia stood, patting her hands on her apron. "Anya, Viktor, Dimitri—clear the table. Nikolai and I are going to have a talk."
The groans echoed in unison.
"Move," she snapped.
No one dared argue. Natalia Volkov's wrath was legendary. The kids muttered and shuffled off with plates and empty glasses.
Nikolai followed his mother upstairs to the small bar nestled in the corner of the library wing. It was a quieter space, dimly lit with warm wood tones and an old Russian aesthetic. Bottles lined the back wall, and a chessboard sat frozen mid-game on the nearby table.
She poured vodka into two crystal glasses and handed him one.
He sat down, rolling the glass between his fingers.
"Spill it."
He took a sip first. Let the burn settle.
"She knows," he said finally.
Her brow furrowed. "Knows what?"
"Elara. The woman I've been seeing. She overheard me on the phone. With Sergei. The shipment… you know the one. The girls. Some were pregnant. Some hurt. She heard it. Then she searched the internet. Found out who I really am."
Natalia's face went pale. "Oh my God."
He stared into his glass. "She wants out. She told me to choose. Her or the bratva."
Natalia shook her head slowly, taking a deep drink. "And you can't."
"No. I won't. I'm loyal to both. I love her, but I can't turn my back on who I am."
She studied him for a moment, long and hard.
"Let me guess," she said finally. "She's locked up in your penthouse now."
He didn't answer.
"Jesus," she muttered. "Like father, like son."
He lifted his eyes to hers, pained. "What else was I supposed to do? Let her walk out? She wouldn't come back. And I… I can't lose her."
Natalia stood and walked over to the bar window, looking out at the back gardens. "You know, I once asked your father to leave. The bratva, I mean. I begged him. Screamed. I threatened to leave."
"What happened?"
She smiled bitterly. "He didn't leave. And he didn't let me go either. He said he loved me too much to let me walk away, but not enough to betray the family."
Nikolai sighed. "So what did you do?"
"I stayed."
"Why?"
"Because eventually, I realized something. Some men—the ones born into this world, the ones raised by it, shaped by it—they can't leave it. It would be like carving out their spine. They love deeply, but they love honestly. And Dimitri never lied to me. Never promised to be someone he wasn't."
Nikolai looked away, his jaw tight. "She said our life ruins people."
Natalia turned, walking over and placing a hand on his shoulder. "She's right. It does. But love also ruins people. So does grief. So does time. Life ruins us in a thousand different ways. But if she loves you, truly loves you… she may learn to carry both."
He looked up, silent.
She sat down beside him and touched his hand.
"Let me talk to her."
"What?"
"You heard me. Let me talk to her. One woman to another. Maybe she needs to hear it from someone who's lived it. Who once stood where she is now."
He hesitated.
"I'm not saying she'll understand right away. But maybe it will open her up to new thoughts, to possibilities."
Nikolai nodded slowly. "She's stubborn."
Natalia smiled. "Then she'll fit right in."
He laughed, the first real laugh he'd had in days.
"Thank you, Mama."
She raised her glass and clinked it softly against his. "Let's hope love can bend where it won't break."
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Nikolai stepped out of the elevator into his penthouse just after six in the evening. The sky outside had dimmed, painting the city in hues of gold and gray, the lights below starting to twinkle like fallen stars. He ran a hand through his hair as the door clicked shut behind him, the weight of the day—of his family, his thoughts, and the fragile threads binding his relationship—settling on his shoulders.
He didn't have to search for her. She was there, exactly where he suspected she'd be: seated on the large L-shaped sofa in the living room, the remote balanced in one hand, her legs folded under her as a sitcom played quietly on the TV screen. She wasn't watching it. Her gaze was locked on the screen, but her eyes were vacant, her expression unreadable. That only confirmed what he already knew—she was still trying to figure out how to escape him.
Her head turned slightly when she heard his footsteps. "I need to go," she said softly, not even bothering to pretend she was happy to see him. "I have work tomorrow."
Nikolai didn't respond right away. He walked in further, rolling the sleeves of his black shirt up to his elbows. "Then let's go get your things," he said, his voice calm, measured. "You'll move in here."
Elara blinked at him, then let out a humorless laugh. "You're really serious about this?" she asked, her brows lifting. "About me moving in here—like this is some… normal relationship? After everything?"
He nodded. "Yes."
She shook her head in disbelief. "You really don't get it, do you?"
"I get it," he said, crossing his arms, his tone still quiet but laced with intensity. "I know what you're afraid of. And I know I'm asking for something unfair. But I can't lose you, Elara."
"You act like I have a choice," she muttered. "It's not like I can run, right? Let's not pretend. The bratva owns half the city. Maybe even more."
Nikolai exhaled slowly and ran a hand over his jaw. "That's not what this is. I'm not trying to corner you."
"Then what are you doing?" she asked, her voice rising just slightly, a bitter edge slipping into her words. "You say you love me, but you won't even consider stepping away from something that… that destroys people. I heard what I heard, Nikolai. And you didn't deny any of it."
"I didn't," he said quietly. "Because it's true. All of it."
Her eyes softened for a fraction of a second, like she'd been hoping he'd deny it after all, tell her she imagined it, that it was all some misunderstanding. But he hadn't. And somehow that made it worse.
"I love you," he said again, firmer now. "I'm not just saying that. I mean it. You've seen things in me that no one else ever has. You make me want to be… better. And that scares the hell out of me because I don't know how to be anything else."
"That's not love," Elara said, setting the remote down and rising to her feet, facing him. "If you loved me, you'd let me go. Or you'd choose me. But if you don't, if you love the bratva more, then you'll do exactly what you're doing—forcing me to stay."
He looked at her, pained. "It's not that simple."
"It is to me."
Nikolai closed his eyes briefly, like her words cut deeper than any blade ever could. When he opened them again, his voice was hoarse but resolute.
"Then let it be that way," he whispered. "If choosing to keep you here… if refusing to let you walk out that door means you'll hate me, then I'll be the villain in your story. Because I can't watch you leave. Not when I've finally found someone who makes me feel like there's still a sliver of good left in me."
He stepped closer. "You say I don't love you. But I do. I love you in every broken, messed-up way I know how. And maybe it's not enough. Maybe it's selfish. But I'd rather be selfish than live without you."
She stood frozen, her breath shaky, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. She didn't move when he reached for her hand, didn't yank it away like she had earlier. She just looked at him—really looked. At the man who was willing to burn down the world to keep her by his side.
"I'll suffocate here," she whispered. "I'll die slowly, Nikolai. Every day I wake up and pretend like the things you do don't matter, like I don't know. That's not love either."
His grip tightened just slightly, not to restrain, but to remind. That he was still there. That he wouldn't let go. "Then we'll find a way to breathe together," he said softly. "Even in the smoke."
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Because the worst part of it all was… she wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could survive the darkness. Together.
But she didn't answer him. Not yet.
And that silence said everything.